I tried another log. Same result. The embers glowed weakly underneath, struggling to survive under the weight of damp wood.
Twenty minutes later, my fire was officially dead.
I sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, staring at the smoking remains of my incompetence, and felt the cold starting to creep in through the walls. The cabin was well-insulated, but without the fire, it was just a wooden box in the mountains in December. My breath was already starting to form small clouds in the air.
I could call Gladys. Except I'd turned my phone off in a dramatic gesture of freedom, and I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to turn it back on and face the seventeen texts from Sabrina that were probably waiting.
Or.
I looked toward the window, where I could just make out the lights of the cabin next door through the trees.
My neighbor. The one Gladys had mentioned. The one who'd checked in yesterday and presumably had his fire going just fine because he wasn't a complete disaster.
I debated for approximately thirty seconds.
Pride versus hypothermia. Independence versus asking a stranger for help on my first day of "finding myself" in the mountains.
The cold won.
I pulled on my jacket—the inadequate leather one that was absolutely not designed for this climate—and headed out into the night.
The walk to the neighboring cabin was shorter than I'd expected, maybe a hundred yards down a path through the trees.Lights glowed warm in the windows, and I could see smoke rising from the chimney in a way that suggested someone inside actually knew what they were doing.
I climbed the porch steps, suddenly very aware that I was about to knock on a stranger's door at night in the middle of nowhere to ask for... wood.
You got any wood, neighbor?
I almost laughed. This was like the setup to a bad porno. Or a good one, depending on your perspective.
I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated.
What if my neighbor was an axe murderer? What if he was one of those mountain survivalist types who didn't appreciate city folk interrupting his solitude? What if he was perfectly nice but I was about to make the worst first impression in the history of mountain neighborliness?
You're being ridiculous, I told myself. Just knock. Ask for some dry wood. Say thank you. Leave.
I knocked.
Chapter Four
Farley
The screech cut through the mountain silence like a knife through butter—high-pitched, feral, absolutely blood-curdling. I dropped my wineglass, which thankfully was empty, and dove away from the window like I was in an action movie and someone had just opened fire.
Mountain lion. That was definitely a mountain lion.
I’d read about them before coming here. Virginia had a small population, mostly in the western mountains. They were elusive, rarely seen, and—according to the helpful Wikipedia article I’d consumed at 2 AM while spiraling about Ollie—capable of taking down a full-grown deer.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I crawled back to the window, keeping low like that would somehow help if a two-hundred-pound apex predator decided my cabin looked delicious. I lifted the edge of the curtain with one trembling finger and peered out into the twilight.
Through the trees, I could just make out the cabin next door—the one Gladys had mentioned belonged to my only neighbor. A man stood on the back deck, arms raised toward the sky in what appeared to be some kind of yoga pose.
“Get inside,” I hissed at him through the glass. “There’s a mountain lion, you idiot!”
The man, of course, couldn’t hear me and continued whatever wellness bullshit he was doing while certain death prowled the woods.
I waited, barely breathing, scanning the tree line for any sign of tawny fur or glowing eyes. My hands were sweating despite the cold. Should I call someone? Did 911 even work up here? Should I run outside and warn him?
But then he moved, gathering up what looked like a yoga mat, and headed back inside his cabin.
